George Edwards uttered an exclamation of disgust, and, leaning his elbows on the railing that surrounded the porch, he rested his chin on his hands, and gazed off towards the distant hills; while Uncle Ruben paced up and down in front of the house, thrashing his cowhide boots with his riding whip, and taking a survey of the buildings and grounds that were soon to come into his possession by virtue of the mortgage he held upon them.
He was a very mean man, this Ruben Edwards—the meanest man in all that country, so everybody said—and you would have known it the minute you looked at him. He loved money, and not unfrequently resorted to questionable means in order to get it.
He owned several farms in the neighborhood, and was now congratulating himself on having secured another. True, it was not much of an acquisition. All he saw, as he looked about him, were a few acres of stony, unproductive land, a small, unpainted dwelling-house, and a few outbuildings, all of which showed signs of decay, in spite of the efforts the industrious George had made to keep them in repair.
It was no wonder that George did not want to talk to his uncle on this particular morning. He did not believe that there was a boy in the world who was so utterly miserable as he was, or who had so little to live for.
He had always been looked down on and shunned by the boys of his acquaintance on account of the conduct of his father, who was one of the village vagabonds; and, since the latter had been shut up in the penitentiary for breaking into a store and stealing money that he was too lazy to work for, poor George had had a hard time of it. No one in that village would have anything to do with him.
He left school and tried to find something to do in order to support his mother, who was an invalid; but nobody needed his services.
“There’s work enough to be done,” he often said to his mother, when he came home from his long tramps, weary and dusty; “but they won’t give me a chance. They are all suspicious of me. But never mind; you shan’t suffer. I have long been thinking of something; and, since no one will hire me, I shall go into business for myself.”
And he did, just as soon as he could make the necessary arrangements.
The people who would not let him saw their wood, because they were afraid he would steal something, did not refuse to purchase the delicious trout and yellow perch that he peddled from door to door, and neither did the luscious berries he brought in from distant fields and pastures ever remain long on his hands.
He made money; but he often became disheartened, and angry, too, when he drew a contrast between his circumstances and those of the boys about him, and then all that was needed was a smile or a word of praise from his mother to bring all his courage and determination back to him again. But now she was gone—the only friend he ever had. She had been dead just a week, and George was lonely, indeed.